


The Sporting Life

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sports Night
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi, Phil Coulson is Cal Trager, Post-Avengers (2012), Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"These are Earth's mightiest heroes?" Isaac asked. "The ones protecting us from...whatever's out there?" </p><p>"They've worked their asses off," Fury said tersely. "They deserve a damn break."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gnomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomi/gifts).



> 1\. This fic is 99% shenanigans, 1% plot. If you're looking for depth or profundity, you won't find it here.  
> 2\. Title from the song of the same name by the Decemberists.

****

"What am I looking at, JARVIS?" Tony looked up at the nondescript skyscraper looming before him, while the HUD filled his vision with useless information about structural integrity and construction materials.

"It is the headquarters of the Quo Vadimus Network, sir," JARVIS informed him.

"Quo Vadimus? What is that, the airline of the Holy Roman Empire?"

JARVIS switched the HUD to a prospectus of the Quo Vadimus Network. "The Latin translates as 'Where are we going?' It is a cable sports network. Its flagship program is--"

" _Sports Night_ ," Tony said as the info page popped up. "I know it. Coulson and Rogers watch it a lot." He scrolled through a lot of useless information. "I don't own it, do I?"

A new file appeared. "The network appears to belong to a Calvin Trager."

"Never heard of him." Tony skimmed the biographical info on Calvin Trager. "Real estate, development...Paris...St. Bart's...Christ, seriously, this guy must have a Master's in boring billionaire, and I'm not going to comment on how ugly the building is, except that, yes, I am, it's heartbreaking, really. No photos of Trager?"

"Apparently not, sir."

"Huh. Boring Amish billionaire, which is, actually, much less boring." He shut down the display. "And we're sure Coulson's in here somewhere?"

"I did not see him, but based on his angle of trajectory as he exited his cab and the nature of the surrounding buildings, I calculate a 98 percent certainty that this was his destination."

"Good enough for me." Tony turned the suitcase suit back into a suit suitcase and smoothed out his clothes. "All right. Let's go play nice with Mr. CEO."

"Mr. Trager's office is on the 44th floor," JARVIS informed him.

"Got it. Wish me luck."

"Do come home soon, sir," JARVIS said dryly.

The QVN elevators ran slower than those in any of Tony's buildings, so he had a lot of time to think. Mostly he thought about Coulson and tried to figure out what the hell was up with him. He had a surprisingly small number of facts, and they were all confusing. Tony hated being confused. The facts were these:

  1. Usually, Coulson shared Rogers' smugly obnoxious early-to-bed-early-to-rise military discipline. But for the last three nights, he'd slept until ten in the morning, slipped out of the Tower at 11:30, and rolled back in at two or three the next morning.
  2. When questioned (not hounded, no matter what anyone said), Rogers' response to Tony asking, "Where's Coulson?" had been a level gaze and a stern, "He's on an op. Leave. him. alone."
  3. But Coulson wasn't acting like a man on an op. Tony wouldn't claim to know him as well as Rogers, Barton, or Romanov did, but after working a few missions with him and living under the same roof for six months, he had a sense of the man, and the sense he had was that "Agent Coulson", Avengers handler, and "Phil", ordinary guy, were two very different personae, almost as distinct as Bruce and the other guy. Agent Coulson spoke only as much as absolutely necessary. Phil knew the words to Captain America's original USO theme song in seven languages (including Asgardian) and sang them all while making enough pumpkin pancakes to feed the Russian army (also the amount required to feed six Avengers, their handler, and whatever friends, lovers, and SHIELD coworkers were hanging around). Agent Coulson had a wardrobe that, while nowhere near as fashion-forward as Tony's, equaled it in class and excelled it in maintenance. Phil had been known to arrive at movie night in fluffy purple slipper-socks, a comically overlarge pair of Rogers's sweatpants, and a t-shirt (a gift from Sitwell, so not Tony's fault for once) that read "My boyfriend fought the Battle of Midtown, and all I got was this lousy near-death experience". Agent Coulson knew the location of his Avengers ducklings at every second, to within a tenth of a millimeter. Phil once answered a query about his boyfriend's whereabouts with a shrug and a "Lost in Greenwich Village, probably."



The man who'd been coming and going from Stark Tower the last three nights had been Phil, not Agent Coulson.

Which was why Tony was here, flying the airline of the Holy Roman Empire, getting to the bottom of a mystery that wasn't technically any of his business, but, _hi, Tony Stark, nice to meet you, that's never stopped me before_.

Tony spent the last four floors refining his spiel. There'd be a PA to get around first, no problem. Cute ones could be flirted with; imposing ones could be outraged. And the man himself: "Hey, Trager, man, sorry I've been missing St. Bart's; saving the world's a drag." "Calvin, buddy, how's real estate shakin'?" "Listen, Cal, the rest of the 1 percent sent me to help you liven up your act. It's not firing up the right amount of jealousy in the plebes." Then to convince Trager to give him the grand tour and see if he could spot where Coulson was hiding.

Tony slipped his sunglasses back on, mussed his hair a little, and stepped onto the 44th floor, cocky and ready for--"Pepper?!" Pepper peered serenely at him over the tops of wire-rimmed glasses. Her gaze fell to the small name plaque on her desk, which Tony read with increasing dismay. "Ms. Kitchener? Oh, right. Cinnamon Kitchener, obviously, what else would the world's boringest billionaire come up with?"

"It's Sage, actually," Pepper said smoothly. "But it's still Ms. Kitchener to you, Mr. Stark."

"Sage Kitchener," Tony muttered. "Now I have absolutely seen everything. What are you doing here?"

"I work for Mr. Trager."

He shook his head. "You do not, you absolutely do not, you work for me--actually, you are in charge of me, which is why what the hell you're doing pretending to be an executive assistant is completely beyond me; I would think that's way, way beneath you at this point."

She smiled enigmatically. "A personal favor to Mr. Trager."

"Trager!" He waved his hands. "I've never heard of Trager, and believe me I've met all the important rich people, so clearly this guy isn't important enough for you to owe him any kind of favor."

"Stark, do you and your ego fit in the suit together, or does it have to take a cab?"

Tony's head snapped back, and he slid his sunglasses down his nose. "No. No, no, no. You are not Cal Trager. No way."

Coulson leaned against the frame of the inner office door, ankles crossed, smirking at Tony. "You found me and followed me into the building. How is this surprising to you?"

"I came here so Trager would lead me to you."

Coulson made a sweeping motion with his hand. "And he has."

"But--you--"

Pepper beamed. "He's speechless, boss. This is so cool."

"I am not speechless, not even a little, I'm...well. There's a lot of things I could say, but they're not worth the air." He jabbed his finger at Pepper. "And as for you, traitor--"

"As it happens," Pepper said, unruffled, "I don't work for you anymore."

"You're still my girlfriend." He cocked his head. "You are still my girlfriend, aren't you? That's not another thing I've missed, is it, because I'd be, actually, pretty heartbroken about that."

Pepper flashed Tony a smile, warm and genuine. "Definitely still your girlfriend. But you don't think I tell you everything, do you? Where's the fun in that?"

"Where's the fun in this?" Tony demanded. "The head of a multinational empire playing secretary for the world's most boring billionaire?" He rounded on Coulson. "And you! I don't know anything about your assignment, but does it really involve hiding out in this office night after night?"

Coulson shrugged. "I like it here," he said simply.

"No, I do not buy this for a second, I don't. You're not shooting anyone, chasing anyone, or outfoxing anyone in a game of high-stakes mental chess. You don't get off on paperwork nearly as much as everyone makes out. You have to be bored out of your mind. And you don't even have Rogers to make out with to pass the time."

Coulson's eyes sparkled. "I'm impressed you've been paying that much attention to me, Mr. Stark. But although the speed is slower than you're used to, this chess match has very high stakes, and that's keeping me well occupied. Plus, well..." He trailed off, frowning slightly.

"Plus what?" Tony demanded.

"The people," Coulson said, voice suddenly softer. "Have you met the people yet?"

"Just your secretary. Who is, technically, my CEO. And maybe still my PA, too, now that I think of it. Did I fire you from your old job before I gave you the new one?"

Pepper smiled faintly. "It's fine. The new CEO fired me."

"Huh." He pointed at Coulson. "I'm watching you. I'll figure out your game yet, and when I do--"

"Hey, Ms. Kitchener, could you--oh. Hey." The newcomer shoved thick-rimmed glasses up his nose and gawked at Tony. "Uh. Hi."

"Jeremy Goodwin," Coulson said, "assistant producer and research analyst at Sports Night. Jeremy, this is Tony Stark. He owns things."

"You made my watch," Jeremy blurted. His face turned alarmingly red as he rushed on, "Well, not you, obviously. You have people for that. Or possibly robots."

"Robot people," Tony said easily. "Actually, robot children. Work for nickels. Literally. They're awesome."

"Jeremy," Coulson interrupted, "did you need something?"

"Um, yes. Dan may have said something he shouldn't to Larry King, and now Legal is threatening to quit."

Coulson was already moving, pushing off the doorframe, rolling down the sleeves of a shirt far more stylish than anything Tony had ever seen on him. "Who?"

"Um...Legal?"

Coulson nodded. "Better. Saves me having to remember names. Thank you, Jeremy."

Jeremy nodded, turned, and walked out of the room. Tony followed.

"Stark," Coulson sighed, "what are you doing?"

"Following Jeremy."

"Why?" Coulson and Jeremy said it at the same time, Coulson with an air of long-suffering, Jeremy in a squeak of terror.

Tony shrugged. "Touring your empire, maybe? Meeting people, seeing stuff." He eyed Jeremy. "You do have people and stuff, yes?"

"Yes, definitely." Jeremy nodded. "Well, not stuff so much. But definitely people."

"Stark," Coulson said though gritted teeth, "shouldn't you be blowing things up?"

"Nah, we've got Bruce on that." He smiled at Jeremy and slid his sunglasses onto the top of his head. "I'm right behind you."

Jeremy started muttering something that sounded, to Tony's untrained ear, like a Hail Mary. "Jeremy," Coulson called, "you're Jewish."

Jeremy snapped something in Yiddish, and Coulson laughed before stepping up to the desk and murmuring quietly to Pepper. She nodded, scribbled something on a notepad, and gave Tony a stare that made him slink away behind Jeremy. As they waited for the elevator to take them down to the studio on 40, Tony could tell Jeremy was considering and rejecting a thousand conversational opening gambits. He decided to take the choice away because, honestly, he was only interested in one thing right now. "So, what do you think of Cal?"

The guy was like a little owl blinking up at him. "Mr. Trager? He's great. Approachable when we need him, but mostly he stays out of our way and lets us do our jobs. And I think he actually watches the show, which is more than I can say for the old owner." He clamped his mouth shut with an audible click and stared at the elevator doors, shooting little glances at Tony from the corner of his eyes.

"Was it me? I didn't used to own this place, did I?"

"You? No. No way."

"Huh. Weird. Thought I owned pretty much everything. Okay."

"No, the old owner was Luther Sachs."

"Sachs?" Tony laughed. "Yeah, he's an idiot. Well, no, he's smart, but he surrounds himself with idiots, which makes him a bigger idiot than if he were actually an idiot. Also, raging homophobe."

Jeremy's lip curled slightly. "We noticed. We're a little sensitive to that around here."

Tony wondered why but said only, "Not something you need to worry about with Cal. Trust me."

Jeremy bounced on the balls of his feet and looked, maybe, a little happy.

The elevator dumped them out on forty and into the middle of, no kidding, pandemonium. It was seriously like the Tower at the end of board game night. Tony hovered in the door of the elevator, grinning to himself, until the doors tried to close on him. He stepped out smoothly and looked at Jeremy. "So, yes, this is very familiar to me, I like this."

"Live TV?" Jeremy asked, frowning slightly.

Tony waved his hand. "Chaos. My natural state. Who are these people?"

Jeremy pushed his glasses up again and started pointing out the people running around the studio. The only ones he recognized were the _Sports Night_ anchors, Dan Rydell (who had maybe told off Larry King, which was awesome) and Casey McCall, and though Pepper claimed Tony had less gaydar than those creepy head statues on Easter Island, he had a feeling like maybe they were why the gang was "a little sensitive" to homophobia. He caught a couple other names, as well, and promptly forgot them, content to let the insanity wash over him as the pre-show rituals and preparations built to frenzy pitch. "What time's the show?"

"Midnight."

Tony smiled broadly. "The witching hour. What do you do afterward?"

Jeremy pointed in a vaguely up-the-street direction. "Anthony's, usually."

"Anthony's. Do I own that? It's got my name and all."

"I don't think so. Sometimes we hit El Perro Fumando, instead."

"Giant blue margaritas!" Tony shouted. Three people looked at him, looked again, and scurried off. These struck him as people capable of gossiping and working at the same time. He approved. "I definitely own that."

A short woman with dark hair appeared out of nowhere. "Jeremy, what took you so long? What did Calvin say? Dan's kind of chewing up the furniture here."

"Wow, are you two ever sleeping together," Tony blurted.

The woman peered up at him. "Hello, Mr. Rich Man."

"Tony Stark," Jeremy said, and he sounded a little punchy. "Mr. Stark, Natalie Hurley, senior associate producer of Sports Night."

"And definitely someone you're sleeping with."

Natalie turned so she faced away from Tony. "Trager?"

Jeremy nodded. "Dealing with Legal."

"Thank you!" She popped up on her toes, dropped a kiss on Jeremy's cheek, and buzzed away. "Don't let the rich guy break stuff."

"I like her," Tony said fervently. He glanced at Jeremy's hand. "Married...two months?"

Jeremy blinked. "Three."

Tony nodded. "Not my thing. Marriage. Weddings give me hives. But, you know. Good for you. Making it work and shit." His arm shot out. "Who is that?"

Jeremy turned paler, which had seemed, honestly, impossible. "Uh, please, Mr. Stark. Remember what Natalie said about breaking stuff?"

"She's tall, gorgeous, and utterly lacking in class. I must have her."

Jeremy sighed. "Sally Sasser, executive producer of _West Coast Update_."

"Great. Thanks." Tony's phone was already to his ear. It took Pepper a long minute to answer. "Pep? Sally Sasser. Can I have sex with her?" He was vaguely aware of Jeremy choking next to him.

"Ooh. I'd rather you didn't," Pepper said, and Tony perked up. She so rarely said no, he was intrigued by who would get the Pepper Potts seal of disapproval. "She likes making trouble between _Sports Night_ and _West Coast Update_. We'd rather not be dealing with that during this....assignment."

"Got it."

"What about Kim?" Pepper offered.

"Who?" He lowered the phone slightly and whistled for Jeremy. "Which one is Kim?" When Jeremy pointed her out, Tony all but purred. "That'll do." He raised the phone. "Thanks, Pep." He hung up and strode after the woman. "Kim?"

She paused and looked back, and to her credit her eyes only widened slightly when she saw who was calling her. "Mr. Stark."

"My girlfriend's given me permission to have sex with you. Interested?"

She grinned. "Hell, yeah. But after the show. I have a lot of work to do."

"I admire your dedication. What time's the show over?"

"One."

He pointed at the floor. "I will meet you back here at 1:01. Don't be late, or I'll start without you."

She shrugged. "I can think of worse things you might threaten."

He grinned wolfishly. "I like you. What's the best deli around here?"

"Carmen's," she said immediately. "Two blocks north, one block east."

"Thanks." He kissed her hand and spun her back into the swirling rush of people. As he strode back to the elevator, he paused in front of Jeremy, now frantically scribbling something in marker on a notepad at his desk. Tony grabbed Jeremy's left wrist in one hand and his marker in the other and signed his name with a tiny flourish across the face of Jeremy's StarkTech 70 digital watch. "There you go," he said, dropping the marker on the desk.

"Thanks," Jeremy said, staring at the watch face. "Of course, now I can't actually read it."

"Right. Yes. Absolutely an interesting point you make." He swiped his phone and hit redial. "And, Pep, get Jeremy a new watch."

"Of course," Pepper said calmly. "What kind?"

"Uh, let's say one of every kind I make."

"Consider it done."

"Great." He ended the call, nodded to Jeremy, and strode toward the elevator, whistling. Coulson should have missions like this all the time.


	2. Steve

"Don't be stingy, Maurice. This aardvark needs another beer!"

Steve jerked awake with a start (and maybe a bit of a snort) and realized three things at once. One, both the stingy Maurice and the thirsty aardvark were part of a dream. Two, he had said that bit out loud anyway. Three, he was no longer alone in the bedroom.

He rolled over and smiled sheepishly. "Aardvark," he muttered.

Steve had never experienced this stage in a relationship. He and Peggy hadn't made it that far before his plane went down, and he and Bucky had been lifelong best friends one day and lovers the next, with nothing in between. He'd never gone through this period where everything was new and fascinating and possibly humiliating--when you might learn your lover's favorite book the same day you learn they snore ( _Watership Down_ , and Steve probably shouldn't find Phil's snoring as adorable as he did). Steve was slightly embarrassed to have Phil find out he talked in his sleep, but he trusted that Phil would never think of using the knowledge against him, even to tease.

"I understand." Phil slipped into the bed, laying so he faced Steve. "When the aardvark needs another beer, it's no time to be stingy."

The crazy thing was, Steve had the feeling Phil was being serious. "Hi," Steve said.

Phil smiled. Steve's insides turned liquid. No one else saw this smile, not even Clint or Natasha, who'd known him forever. This one was all for him. "Hi."

Steve swallowed. Carefully, he slid a hand up Phil's chest so it rested just below the scar. Phil's eyelids fluttered. "Good shows?" Steve murmured.

"Did you watch?"

"Caught a bit of _Sports Night_. I was distracted. Bruce broke his glasses, and Thor claimed to know how to fix them. Things got a little...weird. Did something happen?"

Phil sighed and covered Steve's hand with his own, stilling it. "Stark found me."

Steve's fingers twitched beneath Phil's. "Shoot. I'm sorry, Phil," he said, "I told him to leave you alone." Phil did expressionless like nobody else, but Steve could read him. "Oh, no," he said, trying to ignore the cold lump in his stomach. "That was like giving him a big red button and telling him not to push it, wasn't it?"

Phil's lips twitched. "I don't think he found out anything he shouldn't. He spent most of the night in the studio, hyping up the _Sports Night_ team. Which is why the show felt like it was being run by a roomful of kindergarteners hopped up on Jolt and Pixie Stix." Steve blinked and watched Phil fight a smile. "JARVIS," Phil said, "run a search for stores within a one-mile radius of either the Tower or the QVN building that sell Jolt and Pixie Stix and show me my best options before I leave tomorrow."

"Certainly, Agent Coulson," JARVIS said, and Steve was proud that he didn't flinch at the sudden intrusion of the AI's voice.

"Anyway," Phil continued, returning his attention to Steve. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything," Steve replied instantly and felt a rush in saying it. Knowing both that Phil would never ask him to do anything he couldn't handle, and that he would unflinchingly agree to do whatever it was anyway, even if it were a tall, tall order, thrilled him to his toes.

"I suspect Tony's coming back to the studio tonight. I need you to come with him."

"Oh." That wasn't what Steve had expected. "Are you sure? The last time we tried to use me as a babysitter for Tony--"

"Not a babysitter, as such," Phil said. "More a...reminder that he's part of a real team now, and that his actions have consequences for people beyond himself. I know you have a hard time believing it, but you're a good check on his wilder excesses." A little smile curled Phil's lips. "Besides, I'd love you to meet the _Sports Night_ people."

Steve felt his answering smile. "Yeah?"

"There aren't a lot of really good people in the world. More of them should know each other."

And darned if that bit of praise from Phil didn't make Steve feel like he was glowing until he fell asleep, tucked in the circle of Phil's arms.

*

"Hey, JARVIS," Steve said as he entered the garage.

"Captain Rogers," JARVIS greeted him politely. "Shall I warm up your bike?"

"No need." Steve surveyed the baffling array of vehicles. Who needed this many cars? "I'm hoping you could make a guess as to which car Tony will be taking out tonight."

JARVIS paused. The AI still creeped Steve out sometimes, but he had to admire its loyalty. "Mr. Stark is likely to take the black Tesla tonight."

Steve grimaced. It would be one of the little cars, wouldn't it? "Thanks, JARVIS."

He'd been sitting on the hood of the Roadster so long he was starting to think Phil had been wrong, and Tony wasn't going back to QVN tonight, when the door connecting the garage to the Tower swung out, and Tony walked through it. He was whistling, something that was either one of his 'metal' songs or "O, Fortuna". He had a wonderful singing voice, but he couldn't whistle to save a pig.

The whistle wheezed off abruptly as Tony caught sight of Steve. "No. What--no. Why are you sitting on my car? That is not--no. I'm sorry, whatever, just, no."

"Sorry," Steve said, completely without apology. He jabbed his finger upwards. "Orders from up top."

"Yeah?" Tony's eyebrows quirked up, and Steve had one of those terrible moments where he realized he'd said something he hadn't intended to. "Wouldn't have figured you for a bottom, Rogers."

Steve jumped off the hood and stalked to the passenger-side door, hoping it would hide his blush. "Just drive the darned car, Stark," he snapped.

Tony slid into the drivers seat. "Not that it isn't useful information," he said, because he never shut up. "And an, actually, surprisingly attractive image, if I can...just..." He closed one eye and moved his hand around in front of his face. "...block out that it's Agent calling the shots--or are you one of those bossy bottoms my father warned me about?" He dropped his hand but kept his eye closed, squinting at Steve like a pirate.

"Your father never--" Steve snapped his mouth shut and took several deep breaths. _I will not let him bait me_ , he thought. _I promised Phil._

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," Tony said, unperturbed. "Bet the old man wouldn't have put nearly so much time and effort into finding you if he'd known what team you batted for."

Steve snorted and crossed his arms over his chest as Tony eased the Roadster out of its spot. "I bat for both teams, and your father knew it perfectly well. He was pretty well versed with my stats, in fact."

"Are we still talking about sex? 'Cause I feel like we switched euphemisms at some point and nobody told me."

"Drive, Tony," he said wearily.

It was a silent drive until Tony slid into the "Reserved for Guests of Mr. Trager" spot in the building's underground ramp. Steve wasn't going to ask how he'd found out about that. Tony turned to him, suddenly very serious. "What kind of babysitting are you here for, exactly? Because I already have Pepper's permission to keep having sex with Kim, which is awesome because she can do a thing with her legs that I think even Agent Romanov would be grateful to learn--she would turn it into some sort of kill-move--and it's not that I can't do it with the world's most disappointed chaperone watching me, but--"

"Tony." Steve held up his hand. "I'm not here to babysit, or chaperone. I'm supposed to serve as--" He tried to remember what Phil had said. "A check on your wilder impulses."

For a second, Tony stared at him, blinking. "Ugh," he said finally. "That sounds boring." Then he was out of the car, leaning over and waving at Steve through the window. "Come on. We'll say hi to your fella."

Steve had known about TV before. Several had been on display at that fateful Stark Expo. But of all the things he'd seen that night--hovercars and the Man of the Future and all the other advancements, he'd never have guessed that this would be the invention the world couldn't get enough of. The idea that such a complex industry had evolved around it still baffled him.

When they stepped off the elevator on the 44th floor, Pepper looked up with a warm smile. Tony started to return it until Pepper rose and came around the desk, saying brightly, "Captain Rogers! So glad you could make it tonight!"

"Hey!" Tony protested, spreading his arms. "Hey, now, where's the love for me?"

"I believe you'll find the studio is still on 40, Mr. Stark," she said levelly, only a tiny lift of her eyebrow betraying how much she enjoyed Stark's discomfiture.

"Oh, I see, you're a sassy one," Stark said, always one to rise to the bait. "All right then, I will go. And I will not bring you any pictures. See ya, Spangles." He slapped Steve on the arm and swept back to the elevator. "Bye, Trager," he called, and Steve turned to see Phil appear in the doorway to the inner office. "Let's do golf sometime. Or...tennis. Or whatever boring rich people who _don't discover new elements_ do." The elevator doors opened and he tried to make a dramatic exit but was hampered by two people getting out. Tony growled at them before making his getaway.

Phil had asked Steve repeatedly not to play favorites between Casey McCall and Dan Rydell. Although they were partners onscreen and off and had been friends and coworkers for decades, there was also apparently a lingering professional rivalry between them that the network was trying to eliminate. Or rather, that Phil was trying to eliminate. But Steve had made clear, at least in the semi-privacy of the Tower, that he preferred Rydell. Something about McCall, even watching him on TV, rubbed Steve the wrong way. He hoped meeting the man in person would prove him wrong.

"Hey, Sage," Rydell said, turning to watch Tony go and walking backward at the same time, hands stuffed in the pockets of his black slacks like he hadn't a care in the world. It was impressive. "We needed--we were coming to--"

Pepper offered them the patient smirk Steve had often seen her bestowing on Stark. "You wanted to see Tony Stark."

Rydell pulled one of his hands free and jerked his thumb at the elevator. "Oh, was that Tony Stark? We didn't notice. Did we, Case?"

"No," McCall said, shaking his head so quickly he was going to give himself whiplash. "No, we did not." His eyes fell on Steve, and Steve braced himself. McCall was in front of him so fast Steve almost checked his shoes for wheels. Shoes had those now. He had a pair. "Casey McCall, _Sports Night_ ," he said, oozing that fake sincerity Stark pulled out for the media and all but shoving his hand under Steve's nose.

Steve gritted his teeth and shook. "Steve Rogers," he said. "Cal's boyfriend."

Casey took his hand back and pointed it at Steve. "You," he said, with an air of smug confidentiality that was making Steve's shoulders itch, "are Captain America."

Steve crossed his arms and nodded. "That too."

Casey looked a little like someone had punched him in the nose. Rydell barely held back a snicker. "Awesome," he murmured before holding out his own hand, much less aggressively. "Dan Rydell."

"Hi," Steve said. "Big fan of the show." That would be the closest he would come to confessing who he favored.

"Have you gotten the full tour yet?" Dan asked. When Steve shook his head, Dan waved at the elevator. "Want one?"

Steve wavered. He'd had so little time with Phil since the mission started. He didn't need much sleep, but his body insisted that what sleep he did get happen at night; he couldn't get the hang of Phil's new nocturnal schedule. On the other hand, Phil was working. He was obviously pleased to see Steve but probably wouldn't have much time for him.

Phil stepped around Pepper's desk and brushed his fingers across the back of Steve's hand. Steve turned his hand over lightning-fast and grabbed Phil's. "You should go," Phil murmured. "It's fascinating stuff, really."

Steve nodded. He knew a besotted smile was slipping over his face. "All right."

"Come back to the office before you leave, so I can say good-bye." His gaze flicked to Dan and Casey. "Stay for the show if you can. Watching it live...it defies description."

"Okay." He started to pull away, then stopped. "Hey." He ran his free hand up Phil's jaw and dropped a gentle kiss against his lips. "Thanks for letting me invade your workday."

Phil chuckled appreciatively, squeezed Steve's hand, and then let go. "I should be thanking you," he said. Steve squinted, and Phil waved at the building at large. "Stark."

Steve snorted. "Fat lot of good that did. He's having relations with the production team."

Pepper didn't look up from whatever she was working on, but her laugh spoke volumes. "If that's the worst he does tonight, Captain, you've worked wonders."

Steve doubted he would ever _get_ Tony and Pepper, and he was more than willing not to try. He nodded at her. "Miss Kitchener." He gave Phil a little wave and turned to Casey and Dan. Casey looked glassy-eyed, but Dan was staring between Steve and Phil as though someone had granted all his childhood wishes at once. "I'm all yours," Steve said.

Dan grinned and called for the elevator, which opened immediately. "Tell me, Captain, have you heard of Cliff Gardner?"

Casey groaned and seemed to remember where he was again. "Danny. Don't lead with Gardner."

"Casey, come on. _Glass tubes_." Steve had no idea what that meant, or why Dan was so excited about glass tubes, but he appreciated the men's easy byplay. As the elevator doors closed, Dan turned a grin on Steve. Then he immediately sobered. "You have no idea how much it means to us, you and Cal."

He eyed them both. "I have a fair idea."

Dan shook his head. "No. It's not just--what has he told you about the guy he bought the network from?"

Everything in Steve suddenly felt...harder. Colder. "Enough."

"Exactly." Casey crossed his arms and rubbed them with his hands, like he felt cold, too. "Bad enough Luther had no idea how to run a network. But he could've fired us any time he felt like it, just because he didn't like us being together. And he _didn't_ like it."

God knew Steve felt for them, but the set of Casey's shoulders said he was building toward a rant about the tragic state of the modern world. The elevator pinged softly to signal their arrival at _Sports Night_ 's floor. "Still," Steve said as the doors opened, "better than being able to have you arrested. Or dishonorably discharged." He and a softly chuckling Dan stepped off the elevator, leaving Casey sputtering in their wake.

*

"How was it?"

Steve leaned against the doorjamb of Phil's office and drank in the sight of him. Cal Trager's suits were different from Phil Coulson's--flashier, like he might find in the back of Tony's closet--but the man filled them out in the same delectable way. He'd removed his black suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his light blue shirt, and the knot of his navy tie was looser than when Steve saw him last, but he still looked like he was _made_ of professionalism. Steve counted himself lucky nobody on the QVN staff had looked at Phil and wondered who he was under that mask of focused impassivity, that nobody had tried to peel away the layers of his façade like Steve wanted to spend years doing.

Phil finally realized Steve hadn't answered and looked up from his computer. When he caught the full weight of Steve's gaze, the faintest flush colored his cheeks, and Steve resisted the wholly undignified dance his feet wanted to do. He had a small sketchbook with him, but instead of grabbing for it, he met Phil's eyes full-on with his own and etched the moment into his mind. He would draw it when he was home. Challenging himself to reconstruct moments like these later was half the fun.

"Description-defying," he said, finally pushing off the jamb and into the office. "You were right."

"I often am," Phil said with a hint of a smile.

Steve laughed and stretched, loving the way Phil's shifting gaze devoured the motion. "Any chance you're ready to go?"

No one but another Avenger or a SHIELD agent would've caught the quick flick of Phil's glance to the corner of the room. He shook his head. "Probably another hour, at least," he said, offering an apologetic smile. "You could stay and watch _West Coast Update_."

Steve shivered. "Miss Sasser scares me."

Phil leaned his chair back. "Miss Sasser scares everyone. Get a ride back with Stark?"

Steve grimaced. "I think he left already."

"I think I'm done with Sage for the night. She could take you back to the Tower."

"Or I could get a cab. I do know how to do that."

"No!" Pepper yelled from the outer office. "The man said I could go home." She appeared in the doorway, slipping gracefully back into the shoes she'd abandoned at some earlier point in the night. "Let's get out of here before he changes his mind."

Phil made shooing motions at them both. "Yes, good plan, go." Steve ignored the instruction and marched up to the desk, planting his hands on it. He leaned forward, and Phil made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and pushed out of his chair to meet the kiss over his piles of paperwork. It was a slow, lazy kiss that started a quiet simmer in Steve's nerve endings. Phil pulled back, eyes slightly glazed. "Thank you for coming to see me tonight."

"I'm glad I did." He pressed another kiss, quick and fierce, against Phil's lips. "Hurry home."

There was a little desperation and a lot of heat in the noise that pulled from Phil as he dropped one last kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth. "Love you," Phil murmured.

And oh, god, that was still so _new_ , so surprising. It set Steve on fire, and he wanted to grab Phil and lay him out on the desk--he didn't care who was watching. Instead he smiled, nudged Phil's nose with his own, and whispered, "Love you." Then he pulled back, pretending he didn't see Phil's completely off-kilter grin--or feel his own matching one--and turned to the door. "All right, Miss Kitchener. Are you ready?"

"Hours ago," Pepper said fervently and whisked him out the door. Her smile was pretty big, too--and Steve ignored it just as well.


	3. Natasha (and Thor)

Somewhere below, a door opened.

_ Garage door, Stark's personal section. _

A car pulled out.

_ Bugatti Veyron 2003, fifth parking stall from door. _

Natasha graced the ceiling above her with a stream of highly inventive Russian profanity before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

In the Red Room, everything had been done for a specific purpose. Story time had been a vital part of the days' activities, not because the Red Room's residents were, for the most part, vulnerable children in need of affection and mental stimulation, but because fairy and folk tales had lessons. Usually about duty and obedience and ineffective ways of killing people.

Natasha had always felt an affinity for the one about the princess kept awake by the single pea beneath her tower of mattresses.

She slipped into pale green yoga pants and black ballet slippers and padded out of her room. She would not regain sleep under her own power. At times like this, only chamomile tea and a hundred pages of _Anna Karenina_ would help. 

In Russian, of course.

As she entered the communal kitchen two floors down (she could make tea on her own floor, but sometimes she needed to get out into the Tower, to remind herself of its vastness to counteract creeping claustrophobia), she gave it her usual cursory sweep. Living here was the closest she'd felt to safe in some time, but she was who she was--a woman who would not completely let down her guard.

Her flicking gaze slowed as it passed the sink. The matte black mug with the raised SHIELD logo sat upside-down in the dish drain, patiently waiting for Steve to return it to the cupboard. So. Natasha's eyes tracked around the kitchen again, reconstructing the scene. Steve had sat here nursing...a single cup of tea (not expecting company, or to be there long enough to bother with the coffee maker), waiting for...what? Or, more likely, whom? Unless Coulson's op was ending tonight, which she didn't think it was, he wouldn't be home until almost two. But Steve had clearly been waiting for someone--one stool had been shoved away from the counter, as though he had jumped off it quickly.

And then one of Stark's cars had pulled out of the garage.

Brilliant spy though Natasha was, she usually refrained from prying. So long as their actions didn't impact the team, her teammates' personal lives were their own business. But she'd always had a curious nature; it was one thing the Red Room had never been able to break her of. And, if she were completely honest with herself (never, in her opinion, the best approach, no matter what her legion of SHIELD-mandated psychiatrists claimed), the sheer volume of betrayal in her early life had saddled her with a greater-than-average fear of exclusion.

And so she wanted to know what was going on with these people she suddenly found herself living and working alongside. She wanted to know what Steve Rogers and Tony Stark were getting up to in the middle of the night. Without the rest of the team. Without her.

Tea and Tolstoy forgotten, Natasha returned to her room. She buzzed with excitement, and the paradox was that this would break her insomnia. Now, suddenly, this was the night before a mission. She would sleep well.

*

She dressed casually: jeans with a lot of give in the legs, plain black t-shirt and butter-yellow leather jacket, combat boots. She settled for one gun and two knives; she was trying to be friendly, after all.

When she returned to the common floor kitchen, it was occupied. She swore as she caught a glimpse of enormous shoulders and a whiff of slightly burnt Pop Tarts. How was she supposed to catch Stark and Steve without Thor knowing about it?

Then she stopped outside the door and replayed the scenario in her mind. She was here out of a sense of grievance that her team members were excluding her. Why the hell was she thinking of doing the same to Thor? In fact, did she have time to go get--

"But that was the brilliance of the original version. It didn't spoon-feed us anything." Stark's voice bounced wildly around the walls. She couldn't place him, exactly, but he was close. No time, then.

Natasha slipped into the kitchen and grinned at Thor. He beamed and opened his mouth to greet her, but she put a finger over her lips and sidled up to where he sat at the island counter. Leaning conspiratorially close, she whispered, "What do you think about an adventure tonight?"

Thor beamed and mirrored her motion. "I am always interested in adventure," he...well, whispering wasn't really in his wheelhouse, but it was considerably less than a shout, which Natasha appreciated. There was even a chance Stark hadn't heard him. No bets on Steve.

Natasha winked. "Follow my lead." Which somehow saddled her with the awkward image of teaching Thor how to waltz. She frowned and pushed it aside, turning to lean her back against the counter. Not ten seconds later, the door that accessed the kitchen from the hallway opened, admitting a rumpled Stark and an exasperated Steve. Much like any other day.

They stopped, mouths opening and closing hilariously. They flashed each other panicked 'Please help me keep the story straight' glances. Someone who didn't know Steve's stance on monogamy (which Natasha wished she didn't, considering how she'd come by the knowledge) or his feelings for Phil might think they'd caught the two of them cheating. Knowing what she did, Natasha assumed she'd stumbled upon something far more interesting.

Steve stepped forward. The smile on his face had won the hearts of cynical reporters and terrified civilians the world over, but it had never once fooled an Avenger. "Natasha, hi," he said smoothly, the smile never reaching his eyes, "it's not what it looks like."

Natasha crossed her arms and studied him. "Really? Because it looks like you're about to have an adventure without us." She didn't look at Stark.

Stark answered anyway. "No, that's not--actually, yes, that's exactly what it is, but it's for a good cause, I swear, and not just the good cause of keeping me entertained for more than three minutes at a time."

Natasha's fingers drummed against her arms. "Is it a mission?"

Steve drew up tall. "I don't work for SHIELD," he said tersely, and Natasha was an excellent operative who didn't laugh even a little bit.

She let her gaze flick to Stark at last. "Breaking up a corporate espionage ring?"

Stark inhaled sharply. "Sounds fun but, really, ever since Obie I leave that kind of thing to...other people. Who aren't me. And who are trained in killing and maiming."

"If it's not an op, I can't imagine it being anything that Thor and I couldn't get in on." For such a large man, Thor could be incredibly light on his feet, and he slid up behind her with hardly a sound.

"Well," Steve hedged, sharing another guilty glance with Stark, "it is a mission, actually. It's just not _our_ mission."

She stared at him as pieces clicked into place. Then she shook her head and tried to form those pieces into some other shape. Because no way would Steve do that to Coulson. Unless Coulson had asked him to. But _why_? "In that case," she said sharply, "we are definitely coming with you."

_ Danger _ , whispered a small voice in the back of her head. _It could be dangerous._

Which was what made it so appealing.

Stark flung his hands up. "Okay, fine, whatever. Just try not to kill anyone, all right? I kinda like these people."

"What people?" Natasha demanded, but Steve was already rounding on Stark, and his voice was louder than hers.

"What, Tony, no, we can't--"

"You tell the giant alien with the giant hammer and the nice lady _who kills people for a living_ that they 'can't' anything," he snapped.

"But Phil--"

Stark made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Can kill you with a paperclip, yet you voluntarily share a bed with him most nights, and _now_ you're worrying about him?"

Steve exhaled very slowly. "Yes, he can kill me with a paperclip, Tony," he said with great patience, as though Stark were a dim-witted child. "Which is why I generally try not to make him angry."

"Oh, friend Steven," Thor said, shaking his head, and Natasha suddenly realized that his sense of humor was a lot drier than anyone gave him credit for, "you do your heart's mate a grave disservice! For warrior-brothers to share great love, they must also share great anger!"

Natasha learned a lot about Asgardian marriage in that instant.

"Anyhoo," Stark said, sounding to Natasha like he was trying not to laugh, "I'm going to the garage. Anyone joining me?"

"I am," Natasha said instantly, shoving away from the counter and following him toward the door.

"And I," Thor said.

"No, you can't--" Steve protested weakly.

"Land Rover?" Stark asked.

Natasha nodded. "Land Rover." 

Behind them, Steve groaned.

*

"I want it known," Steve said the instant they stepped off the elevator, "that I opposed this."

Natasha swept the room for threats. Instead she found Pepper Potts. Which, okay, was maybe not an _instead_. Sometimes Pepper...confused her. She found this vexing.

Pepper blinked up at them and sighed quietly. She pressed an intercom button on her phone. "Mr. Trager, we have company. Again."

"I'll be right out, Miss Kitchener," said a voice on the other end of the intercom. Natasha blinked. _This_ was Coulson's mission?

Pepper-- _Sage Kitchener_ , the nameplate on her desk said--tilted her head. "Mr. Odinson. Miss Rushman."

Natasha pulled herself up. So they were going to play it like that. "Miss Kitchener."

Pepper laughed softly and made a face at Stark. "He is still working, you know." _And you're blowing his cover_ went unsaid.

Stark shrugged. "We had to bring up the new guys to say hi to the boss. It's tradition."

"Tony, you've done it _twice_ ," Steve protested. "I've done it once."

"Right," Stark said. "Tradition."

"Mr. Odinson. Miss Rushman." Coulson entered the outer office with a slick flow completely out of keeping with his usual brusque confidence. Natasha hated it. "Calvin Trager. QVN's worst-kept secret, I see."

"I could whisk you away from it all, sir," Natasha offered as she shook his hand. _Are you compromised?_

The smile crinkled his eyes, and Natasha exhaled softly. "Sweet of you to offer, Miss Rushman, but that won't be necessary." _It's not really that kind of op._

Thor shook Coulson's hand with a twinkle in his eye. "It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Trager. Most sweetly does Steven speak your praises."

Stark loosed a loud guffaw that sounded more surprised than anything else. Coulson rolled his eyes, blushing slightly, and Steve turned fire-engine red. Natasha grinned a little.

"I hate to cut this short," Coulson said, "but I'm in the middle of an important phone call. If you'll excuse me."

"Of course," Steve said, dropping a quick kiss on Coulson's cheek. "I really am sorry," he murmured.

Coulson shrugged, his glance cutting between Stark and Natasha. "It's the price I pay for keeping such unorthodox company," he said. Stark waggled his eyebrows as though he'd been paid the highest compliment. Coulson nodded at them and returned to his office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"All right, out," Pepper said, rising from her desk and coming halfway around it, making little shooing motions. "I'm sure you have better things to do than hover around here harassing me."

Stark shrugged. "Doesn't sound like a bad way to pass an evening."

"Oh, Mr. Stark," she said, shaking her head sadly, "what would that lovely Ms. Potts say?"

"I could ask." He pulled out his phone and shook it at her.

She crossed her arms and scowled, but Natasha could see she was fighting giggles. "She won't pick up," she said firmly.

Stark shrugged. "Oh, well. Guess I could go see what Kim's up to."

"Fishnets," Pepper said, nodding decisively. Natasha didn't know what any of that meant, but Stark's eyes widened comically, and he dashed for the elevator. 

"Good enough for me," he declared, holding the door open with his hip. "Anyone else want to see what they do around here?"

Which of course they did.

The outside of the building declared this the Quo Vadimus Network, which sounded Catholic and ridiculous, but that could be a fake name, or a front for whatever Coulson was up to. Natasha anticipated anything from weapons manufacturing to a secret training ground for SHIELD counterintelligence efforts.

A television studio, now _that_ was unexpected.

If it was a fake, the people working it were among the best-trained operatives Natasha'd ever seen. None of them gave the impression of being anything but a group of people producing television shows. So maybe they were real, and they were Coulson's cover. The only way to know for sure was to plunge in.

She turned; Stark had vanished, possibly in search of the fishnetted Kim. She looked up at Steve, who was scanning the chaos quickly and with a small measure of concern. But it looked like personal concern, rather than the military alertness he displayed on missions. "Steve," she said softly, "what's going on?"

His gaze flickered down to her and then away, guiltily. "I don't--I've already messed things up quite a bit."

She held up her hand. "I don't want to know anything about Coulson's mission," she assured him, "but I need to know how many of these people are SHIELD."

Steve frowned, as though the possibility had never occurred to him. _Thank god he's too recognizable to send undercover_ , Natasha thought, _he would **die**_. "I've seen no indication that they're anything other than what they claim to be."

Not the most reassuring thing he'd ever said, but enough to be going on with.

"All right, people, listen up!" A small, barefoot, blond woman barreled across the studio with the force of a hurricane. "Dan, fog in Minneapolis delayed Chris Kluwe's plane. He'll be here in time for his interview, but you won't have a lot for prep beforehand. Casey, we'll be two minutes short in the 20s if the Oilers win tonight, so I either need two minutes of backup or for you to go to Edmonton and fix the game--I really don't care which. Chris, Will, it looks like this thing with Federer is going to be an actual thing, so we need a graphic we can use for it, and I mean a _good_ graphic; if we have a repeat of the Microsoft clipart debacle of 2011, I will cut you."

There was a flurry of "Got its" from around the room, which seamlessly changed course to accommodate the new information. Natasha was nodding thoughtfully when a blur of motion from the corner of her eye drew her attention to Thor, who was gripping Steve's arm with a force that would have buckled the knees of a normal man. "Steven," he breathed, "who is this Valkyrie I see before me?"

Steve quirked an eyebrow that probably looked a lot like Natasha's. "That's Dana Whitaker, executive producer of _Sports Night_. She's not--" He frowned. "Actually, 'Valkyrie' isn't that bad a word for her. But she's engaged!" Though surely he knew saying this wouldn't keep Thor from doing...whatever he was about to do. 

"The lady of the wheatfield," Thor murmured. He had that look in his eyes, the one he got when he learned how the old Scandinavian ways were faring. He squared his impressive shoulders and strode across the studio floor after Dana. "Lady Dana! I would compose an ode in your honor!"

Dana whirled to face him. "What the--" She stared up at Thor--way up. "Who the hell keeps bringing strays into my studio? I have a show to produce. Natalie, don't I have a show to produce?"

An even smaller woman, this one dark-haired, materialized at Dana's side. "You do have a show to produce."

"A good show," Dana said.

Natalie nodded. "A very good show. A show which could be made even better by--"

"Natalie." Dana hadn't taken her eyes off Thor, but her attention was on the woman beside her. "I admire your loyalty to your husband. He is your husband, and it is admirable that you are loyal to him. But _Sports Night_ will not be improved by a weekly cricket feature."

"Jeremy doesn't understand cricket," Natalie said. She was in constant motion beside Dana, flitting in relentless half-circles around her. "And I feel that, if we allow him the opportunity to research it in depth for a significant period of time--he is our Research Analyst, after all, and--"

"If Jeremy would like to research cricket for his own ends, he is welcome to do so. In fact, I encourage it. He could write a book."

"Jeremy could write a book."

"Then, in addition to our witty banter and hard-driving interview style, _Sports Night_ could also be known as the show with the guy who wrote the book about cricket."

"You don't want Jeremy's cricket acumen on-air--"

"Jeremy has no cricket acumen. That was your whole point."

"--but you would bogart his fame to make the show look better."

"I would do it without shame. Or remorse. And that's improper use of 'bogart'." She peered down (not far down) at Natalie. "Maybe a little remorse."

"We aren't known for our hard-driving interview style."

"I think we're known for it."

"Dan is known for it, but not us as an entity. Casey's a pushover."

"My point, Natalie, is that there's no place on _Sports Night_ for a weekly cricket feature." Dana looked around, her gaze finally alighting on Steve. "You! Mr. Cal! Control your strange friends. This is a sports show, not a bardic circle."

Thor looked more smitten. Probably because Dana'd said "bardic circle".

Steve touched Thor's elbow and caught Natasha's eye, jerking his head toward the control booth. "Come on. I'll give you the tour, then we can watch from back there."

They were almost to the booth before Natasha realized Natalie was walking with them. Natasha looked over and smiled cautiously. "Hello."

"Hi." She grinned. "I'm Natalie."

_ Why the hell not? _ "So am I," Natasha said. "Natalie Rushman."

Natalie's grin widened. "Sweet." She waited silently as Steve and Thor walked into the booth. "We're getting a cricket feature," she said. "Dana just doesn't know it yet."

Natasha felt the answering grin, sharp and a little wicked. "You can easily modify the three most common motions made in a cricket game into killing blows. And that's without a bat or ball."

Natalie's eyes widened, and her smile didn't falter. "I don't know what the three most common motions in cricket are. I don't understand it at all."

Natasha slid an arm around Natalie's shoulders. "Let me expand your cultural horizons."

*

After the show, they piled into the SUV Pepper had driven ("I suspected I'd need the space"), because Stark had vanished quite thoroughly. "So," she said cheerily, sounding every bit like a mother collecting her children at the end of a field trip, "did everyone have fun tonight?"

"If Casey tells me one more time how much better I had it in the 40s--" Steve began irritably.

"He wasn't there, Steve," Pepper reminded him. "Maybe he needs someone who was to set the record straight for him." Steve hummed noncommittally.

"I taught Natalie three ways to kill someone using cricket equipment."

"How nice for you, dear," Pepper murmured. Natasha flushed.

"Is the primary epic still the favored form," Thor asked, "or would the Lady Dana prefer an epyllion?"

No one had an answer for that.


	4. Bruce

It felt good to stretch again. He was going to be a hunched old man before he hit 50, at this rate. Bruce blinked rapidly, then reached under his glasses and rubbed carefully at the corners of his eyes. Better. Damned good thing Tony wasn't here to yell about his terrible posture and unblinking screen-stare (not that Tony was better, but he had bizarre ways of justifying his own bad habits at the same time he scolded Bruce for his). While he was on the subject..."JARVIS, where's Tony?"

"Mr. Stark is not currently in the building, Dr. Banner."

"All right." It _was_ all right, and not surprising. Tony came and went with the whim of the breeze.

Bruce rode the elevator to the common floor and puttered into the kitchen, throwing vaguely edible-looking ingredients on the 'fair game' shelves onto a couple slices of his own whole-grain bread to form something sandwich-like. He was more than halfway through it, and the epically large mug of genmai cha he'd made to go with it, when his brain registered the vast stillness of the rooms around him.

He blinked and set down his mug. The Tower was far from the 'round-the-clock frat party he'd feared when he'd agreed to live in _Tony Stark's house_. But with seven official permanent residents, two part-time residents (one official, one unofficial, until Tony could persuade Dr. Foster to join Stark Industries), and the ubiquitous Darcy Lewis (whose job was too classified for even the Avengers to know much about but which seemed to consist mostly of dogging Coulson's heels making sure he didn't overexert himself), the place was never this empty, this quiet, no matter the hour.

Bruce swallowed and placed his hands flat on the table. Clenching them into fists would do him no good. "JARVIS, am I the only person here right now?"

"Yes, Dr. Banner." JARVIS sounded almost apologetic.

Bruce took a deep breath, forcing down rising panic. Most people didn't understand how badly he did with solitude. Kolkata, Rio, Beijing--Bruce Banner did his hiding in the throng, where he could lose himself in the heedless mass of humanity. With no one around, nothing could distract him from the doubled mess of confusion and aggression that was his and the other guy's thoughts. "Where's...everyone?"

"I'm afraid that information is classified."

Bruce's eyebrows jumped. "Their locations are classified? Is everyone on a mission without me?"

"In a...manner of speaking." JARVIS paused. "Mr. Stark left a message for you. He instructed me to relay it to you after you left 'that cave of misery and self-flagellation he calls a lab.'" The fact that JARVIS always did a spot-on imitation of Tony's voice, rather than playing a voice clip of his words, always made Bruce smile. "And after you ate something."

Bruce sighed. "Let me hear it, then."

A screen popped up in front of him, displaying Tony's dearly familiar face, working on two or three other things as he recorded. "Hey, Bruce, if you're watching this, you're done with your weekly atonement for imaginary sins." He glanced up briefly, smiling at the camera. It took some of the sting out of his words, as did the fact that they'd had this argument so often Bruce could recite Tony's half. "By the way, my awesome robot army has grabbed your results for the antimalarial and is synthesizing it as we speak. First batch should be ready to ship to India by month-end." Bruce sipped his tea and didn't try to stifle his grin. He should be angry about Tony breaking into his data, but what he _did_ with that data once he had it made anger difficult. "So, anyway, we've gone to crash Agent's mission, which is not nearly as terrible as it sounds; don't make that face, or that one, either." Bruce chuckled; he had, indeed, been making both of those faces. "You have run of the Tower for now; you can stoned bongo yoga it up to your heart's content. Or, if you're eaten with curiosity about what we're doing--and I know you are--follow the directions I programmed into your bike's GPS. Oh, also, I installed a GPS on your bike. _Ciao, bello_."

The screen vanished. Bruce huffed and rubbed his fingertips across the countertop. Stoned bongo yoga, huh? Or he could catch up on several months' worth of journals he'd let languish in favor of creating new scientific frontiers with Tony. Or start a new experiment--an idea for an HIV retroviral was kicking around in his head. Hell, he could raid Coulson's stash of atrocious reality shows to convince himself how little he'd missed by living outside the US. But Tony, damn him... If anyone had been home, they'd've been completely unsurprised by Bruce's appearance in the garage, pulling on his helmet and firing up the shiny new GPS on his far from shiny or new bike. Bruce was the least surprised of all.

*

The GPS, which was actually JARVIS networked to yet another screen-bearing device, instructed him to park in a spot marked "Reserved for Guests of Mr. Trager". Bruce had no idea who Mr. Trager was, but the next space held the same designation and Tony's silver Land Rover (which could've been someone else's silver Land Rover except for the "FEMAN12" vanity plate), so he figured he was in the right place, at least. "I'm here, JARVIS," he said as he removed his helmet. "Now what?"

"Mr. Stark requests that you proceed via the executive elevator to the 44th floor for the traditional greeting of Mr. Calvin Trager."

"I don't know Calvin Trager. How do I know his traditional greeting?"

"Mr. Stark assures you you'll think of something."

Bruce shook his head. "All right. Thanks for your help, JARVIS."

"My pleasure, Dr. Banner."

Bruce turned off the GPS and stashed his helmet under the seat. He threaded his fingers through his hair. What was he doing here? This went beyond Tony's normal eccentricity and into the realm of the patently ridiculous. No one knew he was here; he could turn around and go back to the Tower. He should turn around and go back to the Tower. But he wouldn't, and Tony had known it from the instant he recorded that message. Hell, he'd known it much longer, known all sorts of things about Bruce that Bruce would rather not examine, things he was not willing to do anything about, no matter how enthusiastically Pepper shoved him toward them. Bruce sighed, dropped his hand, squared his shoulders, and walked into the executive elevator with the air of a soldier marching into certain death.

There were people in Calvin Trager's office suite. That wasn't surprising, Bruce supposed. They were people he knew. That _was_ surprising. In particular, they were (most of) his team. Pepper sat, for some reason, at the receptionist's desk. Tony stood behind her, leaning in close over her shoulder, but his attention was on Steve, and he'd just said something that had made the Captain blush. Thor crowded Pepper's other side, eyes wide and pleading, saying, "I would know the history of the lady of the wheat field" (whatever that meant). Natasha stood next to Steve, doing her usual pre-sparring stretches.

The instant the elevator doors had opened fully, Tony straightened and sprang toward him, eyes alight. "Bruce! You made it! I knew you would eventually, but those drug syntheses are a bitch and a half, aren't they, which is why I prefer taking things apart to putting them together--just a jerk like that, right? Anyway, you're here now; that's what matters." He turned toward a closed door at the back of the room and yelled, "Yo, Cal!"

If silences had moods, Bruce would call the one that followed Tony's outburst 'fondly exasperated.' The door cracked open, and a familiar voice said, "For a man who claims he's changing the world, Stark, you seem to have a lot of time on your hands."

Bruce smiled. Genuinely. He didn't like SHIELD, which is why he and Tony were constantly scheming ways to liberate the Avengers from the agency's control, make them an independent security force (sounded better than 'band of crazed vigilantes'). But he liked Agent Coulson: his calm under pressure; his infinite patience with the team's antics; the way he'd overcome his infatuation with Captain America to return the love of the man beneath. He had no idea how the man's presence in a cable sports network's executive suite related to the mission Steve and Natasha swore he was on, but somehow, seeing him helped Bruce feel better about this bizarre situation. "Mr. Trager, I presume," Bruce said.

Coulson chuckled and stepped forward, shaking his hand firmly. "Dr. Banner. An honor to have you here." He looked around the room, then smiled at Pepper. "Look at that, Miss Kitchener. The gang's all here."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Nooo, Agent, your math is bad, and I am so relieved there's finally something you're not good at."

Coulson smiled and tapped his ear. "If you're free, I could use you out here."

There was a pause, followed the soft thud of boots hitting carpeted floor. "What's up, Cal?" Clint appeared in the doorway of Coulson's office and blinked, scratching the back of his head with the tip of an exploding arrow in a way that made Bruce distinctly nervous. "Oh, hey. You collected the whole set." He waved the arrow desultorily at them. "Hey, guys."

"Agent Barton is with me," Coulson said. "He's the only one who's actually authorized to be here." There was a bit of sheepish foot-shuffling, but no one looked _that_ embarrassed.

Clint chuckled and waved his arrow back into the office. "I was about to..."

Coulson waved him off. "Yes, please. Let me know when you get anything."

"You got it, boss." He lazily saluted the rest of the room and disappeared.

Coulson turned back to them, flashing a smile that wasn't quite like his normal one. _Cal Trager's smile_ , Bruce thought. "So, that was fun. What's everyone up to tonight?"

"Hiding from Casey," Steve offered immediately.

"Teaching Natalie the martial possibilities of the craft services table," Natasha said.

"I must further observe the Lady Dana, in order that I might complete my ode to her beauty." Thor looked like he was going to swoon.

"You know what?" Tony said thoughtfully, pressing his nose into Pepper's hair, "I'm gonna stay here tonight. Hang with Sage. Help her file things."

Pepper swatted at him. "Tony, you will absolutely stay away from my filing--and my filing system."

Bruce held up his hand. "I'm still confused," he admitted.

Steve laughed and crossed the few steps to him. "Come on, Doc," he said, "I'll give you the nickel tour."

*

Getting a tour of a cable network from a guy who'd been born before TV existed was a little odd. But Steve learned fast and remembered clearly, so whatever he'd learned on his own tour--from Rydell and McCall, apparently, and Bruce was surprised by how pleased he'd been that the cultural wasteland of American television still contained two names he recognized--he'd easily passed along. Not that Bruce needed lessons on how cable television worked. Mostly his edification had to do with people--which Steve did even better than facts.

More people than Bruce wanted to deal with at once, honestly. People in graphics and editing. In wardrobe and makeup. Accountants, attorneys, and fact-checkers. Bruce didn't know how many nights Steve had been coming to QVN, but he knew all its denizens. Just looking at all the faces made Bruce tired.

One advantage of living in the planet's teeming population centers was that no one expected you to know a lot of people. It was the paradox of the crowd: there was no way you could meet a hundredth of the people around you, so no one expected you to try. The sea of faces came with an alluring anonymity. One-on-one with large groups, like they were here, made Bruce want to crawl into a corner and hide. Still, Steve insisted that watching the show live, at least once, was an experience not to be missed, and Bruce admitted the idea had appeal. Which left him with a couple hours to kill and no idea how to do it, short of striking out onto the streets, which was tempting, for all the mercury had dipped dangerously over the past week.

He stood at the edge of the floor, staring at the empty anchor desk without particularly seeing it. In his peripheral vision, he saw Thor and Steve in earnest conversation and watched Natasha's effortless movements as she taught the senior associate producer some deadly maneuver with a pickle spear. What was Bruce doing here? This wasn't his kind of place.

He could never say afterward if he'd caught a flash of movement or if his months of living and working with Clint had finally ingrained in him the importance of looking up when he scanned a room. Either way, his gaze tracked toward the ceiling (which wasn't actually a ceiling), and he realized someone was sitting in the light grid. Bruce blinked. His eyesight wasn't any great shakes, but he was pretty sure the figure above him blinked back. For a split second he thought it _was_ Clint, but then light glinted off what he took to be a pair of glasses. The figure raised its hand in a tentative half-wave. Chuckling incredulously, Bruce did the same. The figure's arm thrust left; when Bruce looked, he spotted a spiraling metal staircase that ascended to a catwalk and gave access to the light grid. Bruce sucked his lower lip into his mouth and debated for exactly four seconds before he was climbing.

He had to stoop considerably to shuffle across the light grid, so close to the ceiling (the _actual_ ceiling), and though he knew the metal beneath his feet could support his weight easily, he felt the beginnings of a panicked rumble inside. _It's okay_ , he promised, _I won't let us fall_.

 _Puny Banner protect Hulk?_ There was a lot of skepticism and confusion in the question.

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh. _Role reversal, I know. But I'm looking out for us. I promise._

So strange, still, to be thinking 'us'; to be starting to accept the other guy as an actual part of him, rather than a cankerous growth that needed excising. But Tony had...well, Tony had done a lot of things, which made dealing with him very precarious, sometimes.

It was dark up here, with the lights below them and pointed down, the primary illumination issuing from small, dim, blue work lights scattered haphazardly, but a tiny pinprick of light led Bruce to the person sitting about halfway across. He sat cross-legged, so Bruce did likewise when he arrived beside him. "Um," the guy said.

"Hello." Bruce smiled, though it would be only barely visible.

"Hi." Bruce caught three flashes of light--watch, ring, lenses--as the guy pushed up his glasses. Bruce had a vague sense of straight dark hair, thick black frames, and a battered paperback with a reading light attached. "I didn't think you'd actually come up," the guy said.

"Oh." Bruce's stomach dropped. "I could--"

"No! No, I didn't mean--no one ever does, you know?" He was making quick jerking motions with his wrist, turning his watch around and around. "Which, I mean, if everyone did, it would defeat the purpose of coming here, but I kept thinking _some_ body, _some_ day--so I'm glad you did." A hand appeared abruptly in front of Bruce. "Jeremy."

Bruce shook. "Bruce."

Jeremy nodded. "You're with Stark, right?"

"I--" That was a much harder question than the guy realized, but Bruce shrugged. "I suppose I am."

"He's nothing like I imagined. I mean, he's exactly like I imagined, but that's just surface, isn't it?"

Bruce blinked rapidly, looking at Jeremy anew. "What do you do?"

"Associate Producer and Research Analyst." In the dim light, Bruce made out a shy smile. "I'm not a mind-reader or anything. I...get paid to notice things. Patterns, I guess."

Bruce nodded. "Right." He looked around. "Is that why you're up here?"

Jeremy frowned. "Why would that be why? I mean, I mostly know the light patterns, but--"

Bruce held up his hand. "No, nothing. I work with a guy who says he sees better from a distance." He shrugged. "Patterns, right?"

"Oh, yeah." Jeremy tilted his head, considering. "I hadn't thought about it like that." He shook his head. "I usually say I come up here to get away from the crazy, but your thing's classier." He grinned.

Bruce peered down at the chaos in the studio. "I can see needing a getaway." He laughed ruefully. "That's half of why I took you up on your offer. I've only been here an hour, and I needed some space."

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Jeremy said, "that's my family down there. Uh, literally, in one case." He pointed straight down, to where Natasha was teaching the senior associate producer a series of lightning-fast kicks that sent their heels rocketing over their heads (Bruce _did not_ want to know why they each held a banana as they did so). "You met Natalie Hurley?" Jeremy asked. "The woman learning new and interesting ways of ending lives? She's my wife, so...But." An ear-splitting shriek rent the air as Thor strode across the studio floor, holding a struggling, cursing Dana Whitaker in a bridal carry. Steve, Dan, and Casey chased in laughing pursuit, ostensibly to free her but not looking like they were trying very hard. Jeremy's shrug and the wry quirk of his lips eloquently conveyed "see what I mean?"

Bruce returned the grimace and nodded. "Yeah. My...coworkers are like that, too."

"What do you do?"

"I'm...in R&D." The convenient cover he and Tony had come up with; not _exactly_ false.

"Well, Bruce from R&D," Jeremy said, "you are welcome to remain in my aerial kingdom as long as you like." He held out his paperback. "You can read _The Hobbit_ if you're bored."

"No, I couldn't--"

"This is my 18th reading of it," Jeremy admitted. "I have another copy in my desk; I can live without for a few minutes."

There was something...uncomplicated about Jeremy. Bruce sensed a sharp mind, but also a precious ability to shut it down periodically, which in some ways made him a better companion than Tony, whose settings seemed to be 'hyperactive' and 'unconscious from overexertion.' They stared at each other in a moment of unlooked-for understanding. Then Bruce smiled and took the book from Jeremy's hand, running his fingers down its cracked spine. "It's been...decades since I read this," he said quietly. "Thank you."

Jeremy smiled in return and then turned slightly, leaning his elbows on his knees and propping his chin in his hands. He watched with a mix of fascination and horror as Natasha and Natalie moved sinuously across the floor. "Well," he said, "at least married life won't be boring."

Bruce chuckled and started reading.


	5. Steve (Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild Casey-bashing ahoy. If that's a thing you'd like to avoid.

Steve leaned back in his chair and surreptitiously checked his watch again. He wasn't looking at the time so much as the date. A week. A week he'd been coming here with Tony, and now with Bruce, Natasha, and Thor, as well, trying to entertain himself in and around the QVN Building. He'd asked Phil several times to release him from the obligation, but Phil felt that, so long as Tony kept showing up, Steve should show up with him. Steve was far from convinced he had the taming influence on Tony that Phil ascribed to him, but he kept his promises--especially the ones he made Phil.

He wasn't having a terrible time. QVN was in an interesting part of Manhattan; when he could slip away, he found plenty to do and draw and fascinating people to get sucked into conversations with (the ones who didn't recognize him were the best). The problem was that he couldn't always slip away. The problem, not to put too fine a point on it, was Casey McCall.

Casey thought he and Steve were bonding. They had talked a fair bit almost every night. But that was mostly because Steve was too nice to tell Casey to--what was it Clint always said?--"STFU."

Because Casey never wanted to talk about anything except how much was wrong with the 21st century and how much better life was 'back in your day.' How he thought that was a topic of conversation Steve would welcome, he couldn't say. Because, yes, certain things about this slick, disconnected, hyper-real modern era sat poorly with him. And, yes, he missed a lot of things he'd known in the 'old days'. But how could a man who owed everything he was to the advancements of the late 20th/early 21st centuries spend so much time badmouthing it?

_He wasn't there_. Pepper's voice echoed in his head.

But Steve was. Maybe it was time to remind Casey of that.

Currently at issue were hamburgers. After the 8:00 run-down, Dan had declared that he desperately needed one. This had led to an office-wide debate about the best place to get one (and what, exactly, constituted 'the best'). Steve had stayed out of it, content to watch the incredible energy that raced around the room (he hadn't even felt compelled to leap to anyone's defense when the argument culminated in Elliot putting Dave into a headlock and demanding he take his 'hipster bourgeois free-range organic microgreen _ass_ back to Portland'). Ten minutes later, Steve, Dan, and Casey, with Elliot, Chris, and Will trailing behind, were en route to a hole-in-the-wall diner four blocks from the studio.

That was when Casey started in again. "This is a pretty good place," he told Steve, "but probably nothing on the hamburgers you remember."

Steve gritted his teeth and shrugged with nonchalance didn't feel. "We'll see. I didn't have money to blow comparing burgers around town. Bucky liked this one place, but I think it was because the soda jerk had a crush and gave him free malts--I'm not sure the burgers were that good, but I didn't have much to compare 'em against. Then I went into the Army, which wasn't exactly known for its hamburger haute cuisine."

Dan chuckled; Casey looked sour; Steve resolved not to get baited again. (The burgers were pretty good.)

Then they spotted the prostitute.

She hadn't been there when they left, but she was lurking on the corner half a block from QVN when they came back, and her eyes lit up when she spotted them. "Hey, there!" she called, sauntering forward on terrifying-looking high-heeled shoes. "How are you boys tonight?"

Steve firmly believed that people in the 21st century were _not_ freer or more comfortable about sex. It was shoved in their faces in ways and with a constancy unheard-of in the 40s, but few people had developed healthy ways of dealing with it. He watched in fascination as Elliot and Will looked away, blushing furiously, pretending they didn't see the woman; Chris fixed his face in a knowing leer that was likely all bluster; and Casey's mouth twisted into a moue of righteous affront. Dan looked her in the eye, but his chin jutted belligerently.

The woman's eyes took their measure in one long, keen sweep, and she snorted, dismissive and only a little disappointed. Her gaze lingered a moment on Steve, the only one who was looking at her like a normal human being (at least he hoped he was. He was trying to). "Hey," she said again, softer.

He smiled softly. "Hi," he said. Somewhere to his left, Casey made an indignant noise that he firmly ignored.

"Can I do anything for you, sugar?" she asked.

Steve blushed slightly and shook his head. He thrust his half-full coffee cup into her hands. "Here," he blurted, "you look cold." She did. These late-October nights were getting chilly.

She stared at him for a long, uncertain moment. He felt heat creep up the back of his neck and into his face; he ducked his head, muttered something he forgot the instant it was out of his mouth, and fled inside, calling for the elevator. The other guys rushed into the car behind him, transferring their discomfort with the prostitute to him, along the same general lines of hostility, prurience, or avoidance.

Casey snorted. "Didn't have to deal with that in the '40s, did you?" he asked with the tones of a man talking to a fellow-sufferer.

Steve stared at him. Did the man listen to the words that came out of his mouth? He didn't know where to begin undoing the wrong of that statement.

Dan beat him to it with a hard stare and an incredulous, "Didn't have to deal with _the world's oldest profession_ , Case? Really?"

Casey shot Dan a glare, which he ignored. "I meant how _obvious_ she was, Danny. I know there were hookers, but I bet they didn't flaunt themselves on street corners like that."

"Depends on the corner," Steve said thoughtfully.

"All I meant," Casey huffed, irritated that his sweeping statements weren't meeting with universal agreement, "was--look, I'm talking about the modern commodification of sex. Underdressed women sell everything from cars to floor wax; 12-year-olds wear bracelets that tell everyone what they're willing to do sexually--I know there was sex, and prostitution, in the 40s, but people were _discreet_ about it."

Steve was still staring, and he couldn't make himself stop. Had Casey never seen a WWII-era pinup poster? Footage of a USO dance number?

Dan gave a strangled laugh completely lacking in amusement. "Discreet," he muttered as they trooped off the elevator, and Steve realized this conversation had little to do with the prostitute.

Something in Steve snapped. He didn't think about what he was about to do--or that they were once again in the _Sports Night_ studio, surrounded by a lot of people. He took a half-step closer to Dan. Dan's eyes widened, but he seemed to understand what Steve was about to do. "On the other hand," Steve said, "I can do this--" He cradled Dan's jaw in his hand and pressed a careful kiss to his lips. "--and not get arrested for it."

Steve heard a lot of choked-off laughter and an aborted wolf-whistle. Dan beamed at him.

Casey was turning a worrisome shade of red. "I--I--"

"No," Steve snapped. "You weren't there, Casey. I was, and I'm telling you that you are _wrong_. About pretty much everything. Yeah, I miss a lot of things about my old time. Yeah, a lot of things about the 21st century aren't going well. But it's better in so many ways. You want to talk about then versus now? Ask Dave or Isaac about what it was like for people of color then, Dana or Natalie about women, and Kim about people who were both. Ask Dan or Jeremy how people treated Jews." His eyes narrowed, and he leaned toward Casey, who flinched and leaned back. "Ask _me_ what Bucky and I had to do to keep our relationship secret so we wouldn't get arrested or court-martialed." He got right in Casey's face so Casey couldn't lean away without tipping over backward. "And then ask yourself why you live in a time and place where you could legally marry Dan, but _I'm_ the only one who's touched him tonight."

"I'm a very private person!" Casey snapped. This elicited a chorus of snorts and incredulous laughter. Beside Steve, Dan radiated so much gratitude that his mouthed "Thank you" felt superfluous. Steve smiled and mouthed "You're welcome" anyway.

"And now if you'll excuse me," he said, "I'm going to say good-night to my _boyfriend_." He spun and walked back into the elevator, not needing to look to know he'd floored Casey McCall--and not a second too soon.

He didn't go back to the office. Phil had confided the night before that he and Clint were close to wrapping their mission, and the last thing Steve wanted was to interrupt at a critical juncture and jeopardize the op--and his hopes of getting Phil back on his usual schedule. He'd made his point. No need to press his luck.


	6. Fury

"Heya, Cheese."  
  
Fury reveled in his half-second of seeing Phil Coulson unsettled. Then the mask slid into place--and more, since Trager was an even smoother operator than Coulson--and Coulson offered a bland smile. "Evening, Marcus." He tried to peer around to the outer office, but Nick Fury wasn't really a guy you could see around. "My assistant--"  
  
"Is taking a well-deserved break."  
  
Coulson smirked. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight." _Or ever_ went without saying.  
  
Fury shrugged and wandered into the office. "I was in the neighborhood."  
  
Coulson's eyebrows twitched. "Really?"  
  
"Actually," he drawled, dropping into one of the ridiculously comfortable visitor chairs he'd insisted Coulson get after his first butt-numbing visit on the first Trager op, "I was in the neighborhood of Stark Tower. You know Stark?"  
  
Coulson's fingers tightened briefly around his pen. "I do."  
  
"He wasn't home."  
  
"He's a busy man."  
  
"Uh-huh." Fury drummed his fingers against his leg. "In fact, nobody who lives in the damned place was home."  
  
If the blankest thing on earth--a snow bank, let's say--could look mildly interested, it would look like Coulson looked at this moment. "Oh, really? I didn't know anyone lived with him."  
  
Fury rolled his eyes. "Gimme back my damned superheroes, Trager."  
  
"I'll see what I can do."  
  
Fury's fingers drummed one more time, then halted. "Mother _fucker_ ,” he muttered. Coulson smiled beatifically. Fury pushed to his feet. "You're doing good with the other thing, anyway." He jerked his chin forward. "Pass it on."  
  
Coulson's eyes flicked to the ceiling and away. "Message received."  
  
Fury rolled his eyes and turned to leave. And then froze. "Isaac."  
  
Isaac Jaffe stood in the doorway, hands folded over the head of his ebony cane. He looked old, and tired, and worn-down, and Fury briefly mourned the men they'd been. One gray eyebrow lifted slightly, but he didn't look surprised to see Fury. Fury couldn't decide if that worried him. "Marcus Johnson. Not someone I expected to see here. You a friend of Mr. Trager's?"  
  
Fury glanced at Coulson, who shrugged minutely. "Sure," he said, "me and Cal go way back." Isaac's lips pursed.  
  
"How do you know Marcus, Isaac?" Coulson asked.  
  
Isaac smiled a little. "Marcus delivered my daughter."  
  
For the second time in five minutes, Fury enjoyed a split second of surprised Coulson. He regretted that he couldn't tell Isaac to how privileged a company he had been admitted. When the mask went back into place, Coulson left one eyebrow spiked. "Secret past as a midwife?"  
  
Fury huffed. "There was--a blizzard, and a drunk-ass cabbie, and--damn it, these things fucking _happen_."  
  
Coulson chuckled. "Only to you." Fury scowled, and Coulson ignored him. "Did you need something, Isaac?"  
  
"There've been rumblings about your young man traumatizing my on-air talent. Do you know how much longer Mr. Stark and his...guests will be among us?"  
  
Now the smirk was back in Fury's court, and he served it brilliantly. "Yeah, Cal, how much longer's that gonna be?"  
  
Coulson cut a glare at Fury. "I'm working on it," he promised Isaac.  
  
Isaac nodded. He stood for a moment, looking between the two other men, and then his eyes narrowed. "Marcus," he said, his voice soft but commanding, "walk with me."  
  
Fury resolutely did not look at Coulson as he nodded and rose. He was Nick motherfucking Fury, and nobody told him what to do. Except he'd never been able to say no to Isaac Jaffe, and the squalling, screaming life that had been delivered into Fury's hands that hellish December night had been just the beginning of the story.  
  
Isaac kept silent as they walked through the halls of QVN. Maybe Isaac's employees would've babbled to fill the space, but Fury knew how to keep his damn mouth shut. And so they came without a word between them to a room with three tiers of tables, all covered with laptops, tablets, and headsets, rolling chairs rolled all the hell over the place. They were the room's sole occupants.  
  
Isaac slipped behind the last row of chairs, leaning against the wall. Fury slid in next to him. They stood another moment in silence. "We've missed you, Esther and I," Isaac said at last.  
  
Fury glanced over, but Isaac was staring straight forward, out of the control room and into the studio. Fury's fingers twitched at his sides. "I've been unavoidably detained."  
  
"For twelve years?"  
  
He shrugged. "Yes."  
  
Isaac snorted. "Oh, it's not just that we miss you, or your Christmas cards--though we do--it's that you vanished. We called every Marcus Johnson in the New York phone book. You weren't _anywhere_." He shook his head. "You brought Kathy into the world. And then you just...slipped out of it."  
  
Fury spread his hands helplessly. "What should I tell you, Isaac? There's a lot about my life you never knew. Makes it hard to be a good friend. No damn Christmas card's gonna fix that."  
  
They stood in silence again. Then Isaac nodded. "But I'll tell you one thing," he said. "All the Marcus Johnsons we called, they _aged_." Fury shifted the slightest bit against the wall and said nothing. Isaac snorted again and waved into the control room. "These are Earth's mightiest heroes? The ones protecting us from...whatever's out there?"   
  
With a start, Fury realized he'd never checked in on Isaac and his team after the Chitauri invasion. Coulson would've told him if any of QVN's people had been killed or seriously injured, but he didn't know how much they'd seen, if the building had sustained damage--even the kind of friend he _could_ be to Isaac, he was no good at.  
  
He forced those thoughts away and turned his attention to the studio and his team. The picture that greeted him wasn't much better than the one he'd been playing in his mind.  
  
In front of the anchor desk, Romanov was teaching Hurley how to use a grapefruit as a lethal weapon. Behind the desk, McCall sat motionless, still reeling from whatever Rogers had said to him, while Rydell helped Thor compose an epic ode to 'the glorious lady of the wheat field'. Fury wasn't gonna try to pretend he hadn't heard 'tit-shaker' offered as a rhyme for 'Whitaker'. Rogers was nowhere in sight, but he was probably in Coulson's office, apologizing for breaking McCall. Banner and Stark were also absent, but motion in the light grid seemed likely to be Banner hiding from the world, and if Stark wasn't off having sex with someone who worked for the network, he'd eat his eye patch. The thought that _Barton_ was the only Avenger who was where he was supposed to be made Fury's brain ache. "They've worked their asses off," he said tersely. "They deserve a damn break." The grimace twisted his mouth without permission. "'Sides, the only guy who can keep 'em in line has his hands full right now."  
  
Isaac turned and looked him head-on. "Pretending to own my network."  
  
"Pretending, my ass." Fury crossed his arms. "Trager bought the damn network legitimately, and don't try to tell me he doesn't run it a hundred times better than the last bastard."  
  
Isaac shrugged. "That's not difficult." His hand circled slowly around the head of his cane. "We do have work to do here."  
  
Fury nodded. "I'll put a bug in Stark's ear. They'll clear out."  
  
One of Isaac's eyebrows lifted eloquently. "Tony Stark listens to you?"  
  
"Tony Stark and I..." He looked around, searching for the right words. "We exist in a precariously balanced state of mutually assured destruction. You're better off not asking."  
  
"All right, then." Isaac rapped his cane sharply on the floor and pushed away from the wall. "I thank you, Marcus. Or whoever you are now." He turned and made to push past and out of the control room.  
  
Fury put his arm out. He searched Isaac's face, adding its new lines to his mental map of the man. "I am sorry I had to break contact. I've missed you. All three of you. And now Douglas and Matthew, too. When I heard about your stroke I almost--but I had a greater obligation."  
  
Isaac smiled, a little sad but definitely genuine. "I know that, Marcus. We all did. It hurt a little, and then it hurt a lot, and now it hurts a little again. But we understood. You were headed for amazing things." He searched Fury's face. "Did you reach them?"  
  
Fury smiled ruefully. "Some. Some I'm still...reaching for."  
  
"Good," Isaac said decisively. "The day you run outta things to reach for is the day you start to die. Now get outta my way, kid; I've got a show to run."  
  
Fury laughed and stood aside. "Yes, sir."  
  
In the end, Fury put the bug in Pepper's ear, rather than Stark's. He hated banging his head against brick walls. He left immediately after, without even saying good-night to Coulson.  
  
He had things to reach for.


	7. Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's been clear from the beginning that this fic isn't _Agents of SHIELD_ -compliant, but it's extra-apparent in this chapter, so I thought a reminder might not go amiss.

Raleigh made an _awesome_ thunk when he hit the ground. Why had Coulson resisted Stark's offer of tranq arrows for so long? Clint had Raleigh bound, gagged, and handed off to the waiting SHIELD containment team in under a minute. He climbed in through the window he'd taken out, into an empty storeroom at the far end of the 44th floor, and walked back to Coulson's office, whistling.  
  
"Report." Coulson didn't look up from his paperwork.  
  
Clint glanced around quickly, but the Avengers had split, and Pepper had discreetly absented herself from the office for the past two hours. "Last hostile neutralized and en route to one of SHIELD's fine correctional facilities, sir."  
  
The corners of Coulson's eyes crinkled in a not-smile that warmed Clint. They might never again be as close as they had been before Coulson conspired with Fury to convince everyone he was dead for two months, but he liked seeing the guy alive and mostly healed. "Nothing much correctional about it," Coulson said.  
  
Clint nodded and rolled his shoulders. "True enough. We done now?"  
  
Coulson glanced up briefly, expression wry. "Other than the full debrief and completion of post-mission reports, you mean?"  
  
"Well, _yeah_ ," Clint drawled. "Other than that, _obviously_."  
  
Coulson snorted and shuffled his paperwork together. "Then, yes. We're done." He flashed Clint a smile, small but sincere. "Good work, Barton."  
  
Clint grinned back, aglow with quiet pride. "Thanks, boss."  
  
"Thus endeth HYDRA's dreams of recruiting loyal athletic _übermenschen_ from the halls of QVN. Let's hope Sitwell and Hill are faring as well at ESPN and _Sports Illustrated_."   
  
Probably better. The barely controlled chaos that was QVN had made it a less appealing target for HYDRA, but also an easier one. "You headed home?"  
  
Coulson snapped the catches on his briefcase with a definitive click. "I am going to Anthony's, where I am going to have a very large drink and see how badly the rest of the Avengers have destroyed my network."  
  
"How bad Stark's destroyed it, you mean."  
  
Coulson swept his coat off the coat tree and draped it over his arm. "I have concerns about Thor and Natasha, as well." He frowned. "And possibly Steve."  
  
Clint pumped his fist in the air. "Yes! For once, I am not the problem child."  
  
Coulson made a show of checking his watch. "It's early yet."  
  
Clint scowled. "Funny man."  
  
Coulson paused and considered Clint. "You could come."  
  
Clint bit back a sharp retort and forced himself to look disinterested. _Damn it, Coulson, we were getting along pretty well. Why'd you have to go and ask?_ "Nah. I want to get home. Stretch out. Take a week-long shower."  
  
For a minute, he was sure Coulson'd bought it--or at least wasn't going to call him on it. Then his forehead wrinkled , and he put his hand on Clint's arm in probably the most awkward motion Clint had ever seen him make. "My decision after Loki cost me most of my right to give you advice. But the things we used to talk about still hold true. You deal better with things like what happened to me--and to you--with a strong support system in place."  
  
Clint was suddenly _so tired_. He'd been running on too little sleep and too much caffeine, cramming into too-small spaces, chasing too many neo-fascist whackjobs, for almost three weeks, and in an instant, every keyed-up second of it crashed onto his shoulders. " _Coulson_ ," he said, and rank be damned, this was a _warning_ , and he made that clear in his voice. Coulson dropped his arm. "You're all about the team bonding, and you have to agree I have bonded the _fuck_ out of the Avengers. I don't need more friends, and I don't want 'em. Go have fun with your teams, and let me go home."  
  
Coulson shifted his coat and briefcase in his hands. "I never said you have to befriend everyone you meet. And if you think I don't understand introversion and the need to be alone, you haven't been paying attention to _me_ all these years. But there's something to be said for being with other people sometimes. You don't have to make friends. You don't even have to make conversation, if you don't want. Just _be_ there with other people, and let them be with you."  
  
Clint crossed his arms and glared. " _Pass_."  
  
Coulson's shoulders lifted slightly and fell again. "See you tomorrow, then. Briefing at 1500."  
  
"Yes, sir." He uncrossed his arms and stood aside so Coulson could pass through the outer office and into the elevator. He slipped back into the vents, giving his bow and remaining arrows an initial cleaning and inspection. The more thorough work could wait until he'd had some sleep.  
  
Damn Coulson and his advice. Clint had  _had_ family once, of both blood and choice, and they'd dropped him up to his ears in shit. And then, after years of the lone wolf gig, when Clint finally let himself build that kind of connection again, Coulson went and played dead for two months. What the hell made him think Clint wanted new people in his life? Hell, half the time he wasn't sure he wanted the _old_ people, but he'd basically gotten stuck with the Avengers, and now they were growing on him. Like a fungus.  
  
Which reminded him--had Steve really given McCall the smackdown he so richly deserved? He'd heard one of the _Sports Night_ techs telling Natalie Hurley about it a couple days ago, and he'd meant to ask Coulson. But then HYDRA'd made its move, and with all the running around and shooting people, it had slipped his mind.  
  
Hurley intrigued him, too. Natasha was nearly impossible to impress, but she'd talked about Hurley like a star pupil, practically squirming with proud glee as she described the kill maneuvers she'd been teaching. That seemed worth investigating.  
  
And, oh damn, hadn't Darcy said tonight was the night Thor declaimed his epic ode to Dana Whitaker? How could he miss that?  
  
" _Shit_." With a sigh he refused to call melodramatic, Clint finished packing his equipment with a speed and precision he usually reserved for frantic getaways in the field. Maybe he could catch up to Coulson before he left.


	8. Phil

Phil took the long way out of the building. He went down to 40 and poked his head into Isaac's office to let him know Stark and his ilk had left, but Isaac, being the smartest person in the building, had gone home. He wandered to the studio, where he earnestly but unsuccessfully tried to convince Sally Sasser he didn't view _West Coast Update_ as _Sports Night_ 's bastard stepsister. Only then did he slowly make his way to the parking ramp. When he saw Clint leaning against his bumper, he didn't smile. On the outside.  
  
They'd covered more than half the admittedly short distance to Anthony's before Clint, face turned toward the window, asked quietly, "You really like them, don't you?"  
  
Phil's glance slid to him, and he cursed pretty much everyone who'd been part of Clint's life before their paths crossed. When it came to the job, Phil knew no one more justifiably assured than Clint. When it came to his personal life, confidence ran in much shorter supply. He smiled faintly. "They're no you guys," he said, "but, yeah. I like them." Clint nodded and relaxed slightly. Phil considered for a moment, then added, "Dan. You'll like Dan."  
  
Clint glanced over. "Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah." _You both had shit childhoods and a lot of guilt to overcome_ , he didn't say. Dan's demons didn't involve a roster of coworkers he'd helped get killed, but they hounded him no less fiercely.  
  
Clint shrugged and didn't reply.  
  
Phil smiled to himself as they pulled up to his special secret on-street parking spot. Only to discover that his special secret on-street parking spot had been (crookedly) claimed by a Lamborghini bearing the license plate "FEMAN3". He muttered, "Asshole" and ignored Clint's cackle.  
  
They found another spot ("Seriously, boss, I can walk two extra blocks.") and made their way to Anthony's. Winter was rushing up on them; Phil made a note to find his heavier gloves tomorrow. He'd received several stern lectures about not trying to "out-macho" a supersoldier in the winter-wear department.  
  
Anthony's was a wall of cacophony that hit the instant they walked through the door. Clint winced and put his hands to his ears. Phil smiled sympathetically and leaned closer. "It'll be better around the wall," he promised. Clint's expression made his skepticism clear; Phil laughed and put a hand on Clint's shoulder to guide him into the restaurant. Jack nodded from his press of customers when Phil leaned over the bar and grabbed two Heinekens. They'd get onto his tab eventually.  
  
Behind the blue glass divider that arbitrarily yet efficiently separated the rowdy bar section from the more sedate restaurant section, the noise level plunged dramatically. Stretched along that border sat Phil's teams. Fitting, he thought. The Avengers, especially, operated best in a no-man's land dividing celebrity from anonymity, law from chaos, the world everyone thought they knew from the world that was really out there. He was so glad none of them read minds to hear him think that.  
  
At the outside corner of the tables the teams had shoved together, facing the divider and therefore the door, sat Bruce, looking as close to calm as he got. He had one hand around a sweating glass of Jack's scratch-made ginger ale and the other in the pages of a dog-eared Ballantine pulp of _The Two Towers_. Jeremy sat beside him, nursing a whiskey sour and intent on nearly the same page of the same book. They weren't speaking, to each other or anyone else, but they were clearly alone _together_.  
  
Natalie sat on Jeremy's other side. Her hand was on his thigh, but she angled her body slightly away from his, the better to listen to Natasha, who was tapping her steak knife against vulnerable spots on a defenseless ciabatta roll that was undoubtedly supposed to represent the human torso.  
  
Behind them, Stark, Pepper, and Kim smooshed around a tiny bistro table. "Trager!" Stark yelled, shoving an oyster into his mouth (since when did Anthony's have oysters?), "I'm stealing your assistant. We're running off to my island, and she's gonna file things for me." He added an eyebrow waggle that made 'filing things' sound like the dirtiest sexual maneuver ever invented.  
  
"That's fine, Stark." Phil flapped a hand at him. "I wish you well, Miss Kitchener. Teach me how to work the coffeemaker before you go."  
  
On the other side of the long table, the chair across from Natasha and next to Dan sat empty. Phil steered Clint toward it. "Dan," Phil called, "is that seat open?"  
  
Dan nodded and grinned at Casey, deep in conversation with Steve. There was no missing Dan's and Casey's linked hands resting on the tabletop. "Sure thing, Cal."  
  
Phil ushered Clint around the table. "This is Clint," he said. "He's one of our best contractors; please leave him in one piece." Natasha looked up at Clint, eyebrow lifted. Clint gave her the barest nod, which she returned before attacking her roll once more.  
  
Dan stuck out his hand as Clint inched around the table. "Dan Rydell. What do you contract?"  
  
Clint shook Dan's hand and said, without batting an eye, "Killing." Dan chuckled, unperturbed. As Phil turned back toward the other end of the table, he heard Clint say, "I liked your profile of Khatuna Lorig before the Beijing games."  
  
Dan grinned. "Thanks. You into archery?"  
  
A chorus of guffaws burst up like a flock of startled crows. Dan jumped and looked around, but Clint waved them off. "It's a hobby," he said, treating it like a curious eccentricity rather than the understatement of the decade. Phil smiled and left them to it.  
  
The chair at the table's opposite end, across from Bruce and next to Steve, was also open, Phil gravitated toward it. As he did, he registered the curious configurations around the table's ends. Down by Clint and Natasha, Darcy and Dr. Foster flanked Thor, clinging to his enormous arms and giggling like overcaffeinated schoolgirls. At this end, between Bruce and the empty chair, Dana glared daggers at Thor and clung fiercely to...  
  
"Sam." Phil held out his hand. "I didn't know you were in town."  
  
Sam Donovan rose and shook Phil's hand. "I was finishing a job in Texas before the last crazed stretch of wedding planning. Then Dana called and said some enormous Swede was threatening to write her an ode. So I came back a few days early."  
  
"You won't stop the ode."  
  
"Oh, I don't want to stop it," Sam said. "I want to hear it."  
  
Phil smiled and then swallowed a wider grin when Dana reached up to smack Sam's arm. Leaving them to their unique form of conflict resolution, Phil sipped his beer and rested his hand on Steve's shoulder.  
  
Steve held up a finger to pause Casey (who was making dangerously broad gestures with his free hand and saying, "The best part is it's practically instantaneous. It wasn't even possible before 2001."), then looked up at Phil and waved his empty beer bottle. "Before you sit down, could you--"  
  
Nodding, Phil took the bottle. "Another for the thirsty aardvark, as well?"  
  
Steve flushed and half-smiled. "Shut up," he muttered.  
  
By the time Phil made it back to the table, Steve was grilling Casey about the finer points of fiber-optic cables. Phil stretched his arm across the back of Steve's chair, humming contentedly when Steve leaned back, pressing his broad shoulders against Phil's arm. Amazing people, all of them. And now the job was done, and he could go home and return to his usual schedule. Cal Trager wasn't a bad guy. But Phil Coulson was the one who'd won the heart of Captain America, the one whose team had trekked halfway across Manhattan every night for a week in search of him. Phil Coulson had the better life--and he couldn't wait to get back to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Ta-daaaa! Thanks for reading. If you've a mind to, pop by [my tumblr](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/), where I sometimes say stuff. About people. Who aren't real.

**Author's Note:**

> I can haz [tumblr](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com)?


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